A World of Hurt: Loss
by Alipeeps
Summary: Part of a series of Shep whumpy tag fics to Season 3 eps. Sunday tag. SPOILERS FOR SUNDAY! It hasn't hit him yet.... COMPLETE


_Part of the "A World of Hurt" series – an ongoing, only slightly AU series of whumpy tag fics to the each of the Season 3 episodes. By hook or by crook I will work some Shep whump into every episode.. if TPTB won't do it, then I'll just have to do it myself :) These stories are designed to fit in with the canon of Season 3 – imagine, if you will, that they take place "off-screen" before, during or after the episode, as appropriate._

_This is the tag fic for Sunday and deals with the aftermath of the events of that episode. Enough said._

_My inspiration for this fic was John's line to Teyla in the infirmary - this fic begged to be written once I heard that line. I have to admit, writing this made me cry... as did watching the episode. Grief is a difficult emotion to portray and I hope I got the characterisation somewhere close to right - all feedback and concrit welcomed. _

_**SPOILERS FOR SUNDAY!

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"It hasn't hit me yet. I'm not looking forward to when it does."

Those words come back to haunt him in the early hours of the morning when the city is still and quiet, her lights shining silently across the surface of the ever-restless ocean.

John feels equally restless, like he is shifting on a tide of water, drifting helplessly along in a direction he didn't choose. He has no control over his destination and he hates it.

He's not a man who deals easily with emotions, as a rule finding it far easier to stick to surface trappings, easy social interactions, and keep the really serious stuff pushed down deep, under strict lock and key, where he doesn't have to think too much about it. It may not be exactly healthy but it works for him. But this… this won't be ignored. As much as he may try, as much as he has spent the last few days trying to keep busy, even going so far as to look for things to do to occupy his time, his mind… it's not working. Some things can't be locked away so easily and the pain is waiting for him, a deluge of raw emotion dammed up behind dangerously thin walls. Walls that are crumbling faster than he can plaster over the cracks.

A part of him regrets ever letting anybody in. Experience has taught him that that only ends in pain and it's a lesson he's learnt well, one he's lived by for a good while now. Keep things light, keep things casual, stay aloof. That way when it all turns to shit, you don't get hurt quite so bad. Like he's hurting right now.

There's a… a hole in his world. A constant, aching gap in his existence that used to be filled with friendship and an unaccustomed sense of belonging. He can't fight this, he can't argue with it or bargain with it and most of all, he can't run away from it; it's a gaping, empty wound where a part of him was summarily ripped away with no warning and no anaesthetic. There are no stitches that can hold the torn edges of his soul together and there can be no healing, the injury still raw and bleeding. No doctor could fix this, not even…

He swallows, fighting against the hot moisture that burns behind his eyes, the fierce ache that sits like a solid stone in his chest.

The trip back to Earth had been hellish. And yet, in a weird way, it had also been an escape, some time away from the city where every damn thing reminded him of Carson, a diversion from the harsh reality that life must go on. The funeral gave him something to do, leant a focus to his days; dealing with the arrangements, meeting Carson's family. On Earth he wasn't just a friend or a colleague, to Carson's grieving family he was an official representative of the United States Air Force and he had a role to play, a job to perform. It was not for him to mourn and to bemoan the loss of his friend; he was expected to be strong, to convey the respect and the gratitude of all of Carson's friends and colleagues, to support his family in their time of loss. It was a role that he took a fierce pride in performing to the best of his ability.

But now, back in the city, trying to pick up the pieces and move on, there was no more hiding from it. He could fill his days with paperwork, with schedules and training, sparring with Ronon, checking on the repair work in the central tower, discussing mission schedules and objectives with Elizabeth… but the nights were long and dark and empty. He'd tried to fill them too at first, sitting up late in the rec room watching mindless action movies, going for long runs, far out across the East pier, wearing his body into a state of exhaustion so that when he literally fell into bed he would be too physically tired to do anything other than sleep deep and dreamlessly for the few hours till dawn. But he couldn't keep doing that forever. He couldn't keep running. He knew that.

And so he sits here alone in the dark, having long since given up on sleep, his thoughts churning. He can't stop thinking about it, can't stop poking at the fresh wound; it was like a toothache, a constant grumbling ache that you can't seem to stop exploring, prodding with your tongue to see if it will awaken to fiery pain.

He finds himself replaying events over and over in his mind, wondering if there was anything he could have done differently, any way they could have altered this outcome. It's a pointless exercise. Useless. What's done is done and you can't change it, no matter how you might wish to. He has enough regrets, enough ghosts in his life to make that fact painfully clear.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, the floor cool under his bare feet, he scrubs the heels of his hands into tired and aching eyes and lets out a ragged sigh, his throat tight with tears he doesn't know how to shed. He stands up abruptly, frustration and anger lending restless strength to a body tired and aching from tension, from lack of sleep from… ah hell, everything. He paces the room in the dark, his arms swinging loosely, his hands tightly fisted. He's wound up so tight that his jaw hurts.

The days to come stretch ahead of him in an endless promise of loss and pain. He can't imagine the city without his friend, without Carson. And yet somehow that's all he can think about – the wrongness of his not being there. Thoughts of the practicalities of his absence plague him; the idea of a post-mission check with someone else is intolerable. That thought stops him in his tracks. They'll have to replace him. Atlantis needs a Chief Medical Officer. They'll get someone else. Someone else will sit in that office, will attend briefings, will… The realisation is a fresh punch to the gut, a new wave of pain that swells in him, pushing dangerously at the walls of his control and he grits his teeth, his face twisting harshly as he takes the unwanted pain and compresses it into anger, crying out in a wordless shout of hurt and fear and loss as he lashes out at the nearest object.

His fist slams into the unyielding wall and pain, real, physical pain, radiates up his arm, threatening to spill out the tears that are gathering in his eyes.

"Sonafabitch!"

He cradles his injured hand against his chest and lets the anger course through him, strengthening his control, pushing away the pain. He's so damn angry. Angry at himself, angry at the city, at the Ancients for building that stupid damn machine, angry at the world. Angry at Carson. His hand is throbbing now and he tries to flex his fingers, hissing in a sob of pain as something grinds hotly. Dammit. He's probably broken something. His short laugh has nothing to do with amusement. He should probably go to the infirmary. It's the last place he wants to be.

The chime of the door is unexpected. It's late. Really late. Or maybe very early, depending on how you look at it. He's not in any mood for visitors. He's been putting on a brave face for the last few days, being strong for everyone else. Right now he feels anything but strong and the last thing he wants is people to see him in this state. The whole city is grieving. His friends don't need his burdens added to their own. He thinks about ignoring the insistent chime but it comes again and a voice, muffled through the door, calls his name quietly.

Teyla. What is she doing out of the infirmary? Concern overcomes his reticence and he reluctantly crosses to the door, waving a shaky hand across the control panel. The low, night time lighting of the corridor spills into the darkened room, framing her in the doorway. Her gaze is steady and he flinches a little as the light exposes him in all his pain and anger and fear.

"Teyla," his voice is as raw as he feels. "Are you alright? Should you be out of the infirmary?"

"I am.. well enough." She speaks calmly, her voice low and warm. Her face is half-hidden in shadow but her eyes shine liquid in the gloom as she regards him honestly. "I wanted to see you. You have not been by the infirmary in days and I was… concerned for you."

He turns away from her then, walking back into the room, swallowing against the lump in his throat, hating the crack in his voice as he tells her, "I'm okay."

The door slides shut, cutting off the light from the corridor, sinking the room back into darkness and for a moment he is surprised, thinking she has simply left. Then the lights bloom into life, glowing gently just enough to chase the shadows into the corners of the room. She takes her hand from the controls by the door and her voice is chiding as she walks, carefully but determinedly, across to him. "John."

He looks away as she takes his unresisting hand in hers, her calm face noting his involuntary wince as she moves it firmly away from his chest, her grip gentle as she tilts it carefully. She makes no comment as she regards the scraped and broken skin, the ooze of blood masking the bruising already beginning to mottle his flesh.

"You should get this treated."

"It's fine."

He still restless, still so angry, and he pulls his hand from hers more sharply than he intended, his grimace a combination of pain and regret; he's not angry at her, for chrissakes.

He returns to his seat on the edge of the bed, his hand cradled to his chest as he scrubs the other jerkily through his hair. The mattress dips beside him and he looks up in surprise as she lowers herself gingerly to sit beside him, a hand held carefully to her side. She's still healing and he feels a rush of disgust that his selfishness has brought her here when she should be resting…he moves to rise, to take her back to the infirmary, but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"John." He doesn't want to see the gleam of tears in her eyes and his throat tightens but he can't look away from that earnest gaze.

"It's okay, John. I miss him too."

And then it hits him, really hits him, and he realises that Carson is gone. Gone forever, never coming back. He's never going to see his friend again.

It hurts with a pain that is more physical than the angry throb of his hand, than the tight ache in his throat and jaw. It hurts so much he can't breathe around it and something that sounds horribly like a sob is torn from him, an ugly sound that speaks of pain and loss and loneliness. He can feel his face crumple even as he fights it and he ducks his head, not wanting her to see. The city, responsive to his every whim, plunges the room once more into shadow and in the darkness her feels her arm around his shaking shoulders, pulling him to her, holding him against her like a lost child as the dam breaks and hot tears spill down his face.

She doesn't say a word as he cries silently, the only sound in the room the hitching of his breath as he struggles for control. He can feel her trembling too, her hand on his shoulder fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, and knows that she too is crying, her heart as full of pain as his.

Together, they mourn the loss of their friend.

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_Fin._


End file.
